


This Little Boy Who Came from Hell

by BringMeReckoning



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, BAMF Loki (Marvel), Gen, Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kid Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Not Thor: The Dark World Compliant, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Self-Hatred, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-07-30 22:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20104735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringMeReckoning/pseuds/BringMeReckoning
Summary: Loki dies on Svartalfheim, but he doesn't stay dead. He wakes as a young boy on an altar of a church in Prague, devoid of his memories. All he has left are dreams he doesn't understand, but believes to be memories of a life before he cannot recall, and the knowledge that deep down, he is a monster.But dreams are not the only thing he has. His blood burns with power, and magic is as familiar to him as his own soul. There seems to be nothing he cannot do, and he delights in the possibilities laid at his feet. Yet a darkness follows him wherever he goes, and he will soon find that there are worse monsters than even himself. After he's attacked by a terrifying group known as the Black Order, who serve a monster he's only known in his nightmares, Loki, now Andel, flees to New York City: Home of the Avengers.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Mr. Doctor Man" by Palaye Royale.
> 
> So, here's the thing: I'm terrified. I've been wanting to publish fic for a long, _long_ time, but I've never mustered the courage to actually do it. I hate my writing: I know it's not absolutely terrible, but it's not _good_ either, and the thought of posting just terrifies me. But you know what? This isn't a groundbreaking novel, it's fucking fanfiction, and I'm doing this for my own enjoyment, first and foremost. Yeah, probably in a year or so I'll look back on it and be embarrassed that I published it, but you know what gives me courage? All those fanfic writers who post "bad" or "cringey" fanfic, those first-time writers, those young writers, all those people who post fanfic when it _isn't_ "perfect." You guys are so brave, I admire you the most. Because you took that leap, and hopefully you feel good about that, because you should. This is for you. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading, and that you'll leave a kudos/comment, because validation! Also, this is only the prologue, hence the low word count. Hopefully, chapters will be longer, but expect _really slow_ updates. I don't really know where I'm going with this, so there may be changes to previous chapters as I decide on the plot.

_“There's a little story I’d like to tell_

_About this little boy who came from Hell_

_Sit right there and listen real good_

_I'll tell you all the ways he's misunderstood.”_

_– _Palaye Royale, “Mr. Doctor Man.”

* * *

He was cold, which was ironic, considering his true form. Loki hadn't realized Frost Giants could _get _cold. Was it because he was dying? He’d died before, in the Void. He remembered how peaceful it had been, after. There had been no pain. There had only been darkness and the feeling of someone holding him, and he’d never felt more safe, cradled in oblivion. The dark had promised to keep him, all of him, and he’d felt relieved, believing it.

(He should have known that it was nothing but a lie.)

Then he was brought back, to the Other leering over him, and Loki learned the true meaning of suffering. It was there, on Sanctuary, that he learned what true monsters were.

He longed for death long after.

During the long months of screaming himself raw as he was being unmade, begging for an end to the agony, for Thor to come and save him, yet he never came. As he was made into a new man, built strong on pain and rage (and hate, so much hate, that it was a poison in his blood, infecting all else.)

When he arrived on Midgard and every part of him ached, exhaustion reaching down to his very bones, and nothing in his mind was quiet. As he fought with Midgard’s Avengers, and his mind was torn in two –_ kill them, put on a show, crush them, warn them, give the Titan the Tesseract, **hurt them like they hurt you** _– threatening to drive him mad. When he stabbed Thor and smiled with tears in his eyes, knowing that he had nothing left (he’d known there would be no victory, no matter what he did – _you lack conviction _– but to fail, oh to fail, death would be a mercy.) After the green beast had thrown him about like a dog shaking a rat in its jaws, and suddenly the noise was gone and he realized that he had lost.

He was dragged back to Asgard, sentenced to a life of imprisonment for his crimes, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Titan came for him. He’d wished for the axe. It would’ve been the end, and Thanos couldn’t reach him then. _He will make you long for something as sweet as **pain** – _

Thor was holding him as he was dying, pleading with him to stay, and he didn’t long for it now. Stupidly, he felt loved cradled in his brother’s arms, and he wanted to feel bitterness instead – _of course you would love me now, when I’m dying _– but he couldn’t quite manage it. He watched as the anguish filled his brother’s eyes, and thought _this isn’t what I wanted._ Remorse settled heavy and aching in his heart, and he felt the sudden need to tell him everything, all the things he’d left unsaid, but all he seemed able to force out was _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

The cold was in every part of him, and frantically he glanced at his hands, but they remained Aesir pale. Would the All-Father’s glamour stay with him, even in death? It would be fitting, he supposed, to die as he’d lived: a monster, no matter the lie that was his skin. Yet he wondered. Would the Norns allow themselves to be fooled and deem him worthy? Would Valhalla’s gates open wide for him, with Frigga waiting there for him with open arms? He’d believed his words when he said them to the Kursed beast, that they would see each other in Hel. And yet, he couldn’t help but hope for a different ending to his tale.

Thor murmured reassurances to him, and he stared up at him only for his gaze to inexplicably veer to the right. His heart seized inside his chest, and he was hit with a pain far greater than being impaled, or of the Kursed’s poison surging through his veins.

Frigga stood there, bathed in golden light. She smiled down at him sadly, and there was a deep pain in her eyes, yet also so much love. Loki felt something in him slacken, a fear going unrealized. There was no anger there, nor blame; she had come to guide him to Valhalla.

_Take me home, Amma, _he thought to her, and she closed her eyes, as if in regret. _I’m ready. Take me home._

“I’ll tell Father what you did here today,” Thor told him gently, his voice brittle, and Loki’s gaze returned to him. _Let me give you this, _his eyes seemed to say. There was a grief on his face that Loki had seen once before, as they both dangled over an abyss, and Loki had allowed himself to fall.

He felt an otherworldly calm come over him, and he knew he was close.

“I didn’t do it for him.” It was a truth that startled him: he hadn’t done it for Odin, for his approval, or his love. He’d done it only for Thor; his brother, no matter how hard he had tried to deny it, whom he hated, yet loved even more. He couldn’t tell him everything, but he could tell him that. A final parting gift, no matter how meaningless it truly was at the end.

He closed his eyes, and the last thing he heard as he slipped away was Thor howling, and he thought _I'm a fool, I'm a fool._

* * *

Tell me if you’ve heard this story before. It went like this:

A boy woke stretched on an altar, like an offering to divine gods, in a church both beautiful and dark. Everything in him ached, and everything in him was _wrong, _and the first thing he did was weep. He wept with tears that were cold instead of warm, that tasted of ash instead of salt, and for a long time (perhaps a moment, or perhaps an eternity) tears were all he knew. Loss beat in him like second heart, singing its terrible song of tragedy, and the boy didn’t know what he’d lost, but he knew it had been something vital. There were fragments in his mind, colors of vibrant red and sad, sad blue, a feeling of _home _and a feeling of _rage, hate, lovelovelove_, but he couldn’t make sense of any of them. He knew nothing, nothing at all, and when he opened his eyes to see the world he’d come into, there was nothing familiar, only unknown. He tried to remember, but no memories came to him.

The cloth beneath him was bleached pure and white (while he was not) and there were golden statues all around him, with gazes that were almost condemning (and he was the condemned).

It went like this:

The boy who lost, the boy who ached, looked down upon himself and saw a monster. He saw skin of deep, cobalt blue, etched in secrets, and claws black and sharp as jagged glass. Great horns rested heavy upon his head, long and curved like crescent moons, and he could feel himself breaking beneath their weight. He was cold, like his very bones were forged in ice, and he shivered (but not with cold, he _was _the cold). Horror slid sickly in his blood, and he was overcome with a wave of revulsion so potent it threatened to unmake him. He looked down upon himself, and everything inside him screamed _monster._

A sound pierced the holy hush, raw and anguished, and it was the boy (the monster) howling with everything he had. He howled at the moonlit ceiling, the high arches of decorated stone. At the gleaming, golden statues, the art in colors so rich its reality paled in comparison. At the rows and rows of empty pews. He howled at everything, and at nothing, and he was consumed by his despair. He howled, and there was no answer, only an echo thrown back at him, empty and mocking.

It went like this:

A woman, an ordinary woman who was an ordinary maid, heard screaming inside an empty church. The sound was terrible and haunting, and it chilled her to the bone, making her want to scream along with it. Yet despite her every instinct telling her to flee, she ran toward it, following like it was a siren song calling her name, and found something strange.

A boy with black hair sat naked atop an altar, bowed over and screaming himself raw into his hands. Horns grew wicked from his head, and his skin was _blue. _For a moment everything in her froze in dread, because there was nothing holy in the way he screamed. It was a long and wretched keen, and she tasted blood in the back of her own throat as she listened to it. For a moment, her mind screamed _demon,_ and she was sick with fear.

But she had been a mother once, and she knew what a child sounded like. A child, howling with grief and despair, horror and hate, alien in every way, but a child nevertheless.

It went like this:

A woman pulled a naked monster screaming into her lap, and sang it a lullaby. She sang, and she stroked, running her hands down a back knotted with scar tissue, and where she touched, warmth bloomed. Pale, milky white chased away the blue, the horns receding until only smooth skin remained, and the screams quieted to nothing. She glanced down and saw a boy who looked human (but she knew he was not), and when the boy opened his eyes, they were a clever, vibrant green. His young face was streaked with tears, and she wondered why she’d ever feared he was something monstrous.

He gazed up at her in wonder and disbelief, like she was a prayer that he never thought would be answered, and it made something in her chest ache. She held onto him tighter and resolved to never let him go.

_Who are you? Where did you come from? _she asked him, and she felt the boy stiffen underneath her hands. She shushed him, combing her fingers through soft hair, and he closed his eyes, practically melting in her arms, like he was starved of a kind touch. She studied the ruin of his body, the jagged and angry scarring that spanned his back, the mottled burns and what looked to be the remains of a brand on the back of his neck, nestled in his hair. It was a savage portrayal of violence, cruel and deliberate, and she felt sickened by it.

_God help me, _she thought to herself in horror, _who could do such a thing to a child? _

_A monster._

In sudden fear, she searched the empty church to see if the ones who had done this remained, but they appeared to be alone. The boy was still and quiet in her arms, though his face was troubled, and he clung to her in a sad sort of way, like he was afraid of being left alone. Like she was the first shred of safety he’d been given in a long time, and he didn’t want to lose it. She feared he had escaped someone terrible. If he had, then he could be found by them again, and she couldn’t let that happen. She made her decision.

Gently, she prodded him, and he opened his eyes slowly, as if in dread. She smiled down at him, brushing the hair out of his face, and whispered, _I’m going to take you somewhere safe, I promise. Can you stand?_

He nodded.

It went like this:

A woman helped a boy (a monster, but she didn’t believe it anymore) stand on shaking legs, the altar cloth wrapped tight around his hips. She caught him when his legs gave out beneath him, and slung a thin arm around her shoulders to help him walk. He moved awkwardly, like a newborn foal on unsteady limbs, like every step pained him. She would’ve carried him if she could, but although he was almost painfully thin, he weighed as much as a grown man, and all she could do was help him walk.

Slowly, they made their way through the church (the boy flinching at shadows, and she’d never been afraid of the dark, but with his pulse fluttering like a frightened bird’s beneath her fingers, suddenly every shadow became sinister). They came out into cold night air, and she realized he hadn’t made a sound the entire time. She would’ve thought he was mute, if he hadn’t been howling when she found him.

_I am Berta,_ she told him, hoping to coax something out of him. _What is your name?_

The boy was silent, and she thought he would remain so, but then –

_I don’t know,_ he answered softly.

He had a lovely voice, refined with an accent she couldn’t place. Yet he spoke like a native, and she wondered again who he was, and where he’d come from. Why was he inside a closed church, wearing nothing and howling like a wounded animal? What had been done to him?

She paused, considering him, and he stared back at her, his face apprehensive.

_Then until you do know, I shall call you Andel. Is that all right? _

_…Yes, _the boy replied. 

* * *

Not long after Berta had gotten the boy she named Andel into her flat, and was finding him clothes to wear, a portal appeared in the middle of the now-empty cathedral. It blazed a fiery orange, showering sparks along its circular edge, and out walked a man, a sorcerer by the name of Doctor Stephen Strange. On the other side of the world, he had felt a great upheaval that could only have been made by magic, and followed it to its source. He surveyed the church, and found nothing there, only faint traces of the magic he’d originally felt. Yet when he attempted to grasp it, to use it to track its bearer, it slipped through his fingers like smoke, and he felt a chill course through him.

It felt like death. Like power, like change on a dark horizon.

It felt like chaos. 

* * *

In a London apartment, sometime in the night, a god woke in a cold sweat beside the woman he loved. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, and he didn’t know why. The air tasted strange, like it was charged with _seidr, _and he felt as if something momentous had occurred_._ Glancing outside the window, he stiffened.

Streaked across the sky was a familiar shade of green. It glowed like a beacon meant only for him, and then it was gone, and Thor didn’t know what it meant. 

* * *

At the end of the Void, a Titan turned his gaze toward Earth, and planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … Well shit. I can't believe I just posted that. Please excuse me while I go perform a celebratory anxiety attack. 
> 
> Now for notes:
> 
> 1) In this AU, Stephen is already the Sorcerer Supreme, so the events of _Doctor Strange_ happened earlier than in Canon, sometime before _Thor: The Dark World._  
2) Also, I subscribe to the headcanon that Loki was tortured and manipulated by Thanos, and influenced (note: influenced, not controlled) by the Mind Stone, with the Other able to reach into his mind at will. In this fic, the influence is more intense, causing Loki to be constantly conflicted into either obeying Thanos, or resisting. This does _not_ absolve him of blame, or make him into a good guy, but he's also not a complete villain, either.  
3) I actually believe Loki died in Dark World, or thought he was dying, because no way were those emotions fake. To me, he either thought he was dying and just kind of went into magical hibernation to heal, or died and somehow came back to life.  
4) Yes, Loki's Jotun form has horns. Fight me on this. But, I actually have a reason for it that fits in Canon! I based this on the beautiful and heartbreaking fic, "Calving Diamonds" by jane_potter, where the Jotnar _did_ have horns, but they lost them in being separated from the Casket (or something similar, it's been a while). Go read that fic, it's fucking amazing.  
5) This is set in Prague, and the beginning scene is set inside the Týn Church. Why is this the setting? Because of the Aesthetic™ and _literally no other reason._ I could've chosen somewhere that might've made more sense or had meaning, like Norway or New York or some shit, but I chose Prague. It's going to be great, trust me.  
6) Loki is going to be more powerful than he was in the movies. Cringey? Probably, but I'm just a sucker for my faves being a little OP. He's been reincarnated too, and he's now closer to being a "god" than he's ever been.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Andel is a boy who is a little mad, a little broken, and this haunts him. 
> 
> (There is something inside him, and it is begging to be set free.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up a month later with Starbucks and shame* I have no excuse. 
> 
> I am so sorry this is so late! I really tried to finish this quickly, but I kind of got caught in a tug-of-war between hating and loving my writing, so that was a bit of a struggle, but I persevered! I wanted to thank everyone who has shown support for this fic: your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions have meant so much to me, and it's honestly what has kept me writing. Seriously, thank you so much.
> 
> (A song to go with this fic in general is "Outrunning Karma" by Alec Benjamin. Go and give it a listen, it's beautiful.)

The morning air was near frigid, but Andel hardly felt it as he sat perched on the fourth-floor balcony, his legs between the bars of the safety rail as they dangled above open air. The sun was beginning to rise into the bleak, gray sky, and far below him people were moving about, hurrying to their cars to escape the chill. He watched them in fascination, trying to imagine where they were going, what their names were, whether they liked the cold or if they didn’t. Berta had left an hour before, her work requiring her to be at the Týn Church before it opened to tourists. She’d left a note on the refrigerator that simply stated, _be good, 98._

He wanted to go outside. It was a desire that had been hounding him for quite some time, but it was particularly bad this morning. The night before he’d had a dream that left him restless and unsettled: a glimpse of virescent light, calling to him, warm and familiar, yet when he reached out to touch it, it had been gone, and the dream ended. The longing he’d felt when he woke had nearly been akin to a physical pain, and he couldn’t stop brooding over it. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Berta, the middle-aged woman teasing him about it before leaving, but he knew she’d ask him about it later.

What could he tell her? Another dream, that made him feel that he was missing something important to him? It was nothing new. It had been nearly three weeks since Berta had taken him in, and in that time, he’d learned that he was missing many things.

_A family, a home, a name, a life. Memories, a true feeling of safety, a quiet mind, restful nights. _

Since Berta worked such long shifts cleaning at either the cathedral or the high-end Residence Brehova hotel, he was left alone for most of the day, and it caused him to become almost mind-numbingly bored. During the days she didn’t work, they often took long walks throughout the city, where she showed him her favorite cafés and pestered him into trying a new pastry, which he found that he was very partial to chocolate. She’d take him to the closest park to play a game called Frisbee, or they’d walk through Old Town to visit the shops or art galleries. He loved those days the most, when he had her all to himself and was able to sate his curiosity, but he always found himself wanting more than he could have.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked to be allowed to wander outside, but he had been told repeatedly that he should never venture out by himself. For fear of becoming lost in a city he did not know, or being found by the same people who had left his body an ugly, mutilated thing, whom he wouldn’t even recognize if he saw them.

It was a fear that he shared. There were still some mornings when he would wake with the cold certainty that he was being hunted, and Berta would be forced to call in sick because he was so afraid of being left alone. That if he stayed by himself long enough, the shadows would swallow him whole. (Sometimes he wondered if he was going mad. Other times, he feared he already was.) Not even a walk through Old Town would soothe him, because every person that glanced their way would make his skin itch, and he’d be filled with a sense of fear and dread, causing him to panic in the street.

_It’s them, _a part of his mind would whisper, and it sounded like a snake, like something frightening, _they’ve found you__. Run, run, little boy, because if they catch you … _

_What if they catch me? _

He never had an answer, but when he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror after he’d washed, and fingered the brand on the back of his neck, he thought, _nothing good._

Berta had told him that only a monster would do such a thing. He wondered if he’d done something terrible, and the marks were put there so all the world would know. That the only monster was him, and this was his punishment, his guilt. No matter what she tried to convince him of, he couldn’t quite believe her. He couldn’t forget the feeling of waking on that altar and knowing immediately that something in him was wrong, how his first thought when he saw himself had been _monster, _and he’d known somehow that it was true.

A man across the street caught sight of him and stared as he walked to his car. He stiffened, his skin brought to crawling, and his hands gripped the bars of the rail, tightening the longer the man watched. His face was unfamiliar, yet every time he blinked, it almost became so. Another face would briefly slot into place, and then it was gone, like a glitch in the TV, and Andel would wonder about that face. Why he saw it in his dreams, and why it bled into his waking world. Who was that man? The one with the – _blue eyes brown eyes blond hair brown hair kind face cruel face_ – familiar features?

They stared at each other for a long moment, before the man’s placid expression broke, and he smiled, hand lifting in a wave. Andel didn’t return it; instead he drew his legs back onto the balcony and retreated inside, rubbing the length of his arms anxiously. He locked the glass door and watched through the window as the man drove away before closing the curtains completely.

His heart throbbed inside his chest, and he rubbed at it, wincing as he seemed to feel it, beating through his skin. Perhaps he shouldn’t go outside, he realized, if he couldn’t stand the curious gaze of a random stranger.

To entertain himself, he followed the note Berta left him and searched the apartment for plastic rhinestones.

In the beginning, when the woman had left him alone for an entire day, he’d had nothing to amuse himself with. The television helped for a time, but there were so few channels that weren’t static, and the ones that didn’t tended to have little substance to them. The news, which became repetitive with unchanging weather predictions and the depressing report of an occasional homicide (and once Andel learned the meaning of that word he became obsessed with it: _homicide: noun, the deliberate and unlawful killing of one person by another. See also: murder, killing, monstrous._ Did he fit somewhere, between those words?)

There was also a shoddy cooking show, but Berta had banned him from watching that, on account of nearly setting the entire building on fire when he tried to replicate the actions of a semi-professional culinary chef when he still had trouble using the shower. But, on a positive note, he was able to mingle with the previously unknown neighbors, after pounding on their door screaming _fire! Fire! Please help me! I don’t know how to use this fire vanquisher!_

Surprisingly, Berta hadn’t chewed his ear off for that one when she returned to find blackened cabinets and him lurking guiltily on the balcony; she only told him not to try cooking without her and that accidents happened. But that hadn’t made him forget the burning cold he’d felt when he heard the key slot into the lock and realized that she might become angry, and he’d glanced down at the street below as he hid and wondered if the fall might kill him. And why did the thought of falling, however briefly, make him sick with remembered horror?

To remedy this, Berta began to hide multicolored rhinestones throughout the apartment. The first time she’d done it, she left one with a note that simply said, _Find them all before I get home, and I’ll bring back ice cream. _

He’d torn through the flat to find them all.

The places she hid them were creative and often delightfully bizarre. He’d found six in between slices of bread, one hidden in the bristles of his toothbrush, and four frozen in ice cubes. After washing his hands, he’d nearly screamed when he saw a yellow rhinestone begin to disappear down the drain, and it was only due to his quick reflexes that he managed to catch it with the tip of his pinky before it was gone forever.

Despite having sore fingers from jamming them into the drain, he had to admire how she took full advantage of the lack of rules on where she could hide them. It almost bordered on cheating, and he found that he liked that, laughing as he found a rhinestone in a particularly devious spot.

When Berta returned later that night with a pint of ice cream in one hand and her keys in the other, she wasn’t laughing as she gaped at the trashed apartment. In his haste to win, he hadn’t spared the time to clean up after himself. She ended up giving him his reward, but only with the promise that he’d fix his mess in the morning. In his defense, there hadn’t been a rule stating that the apartment had to remain spotless. She’d laughed when he told her that, petting his hair and calling him her clever little magpie, and he’d nearly preened at the praise. It was familiar in a way that left him warm and aching at the same time, but he couldn’t discern the reason why.

It became a game. Berta would hide the rhinestones, and Andel would find them, leaving the apartment as if it had never been touched. It was an effective distraction, and he’d only lost once, unable to find the final two. When asked, she wouldn’t reveal where they were hidden, only that they were together, and to tease him, every note she left ended with _98_ instead of _100._

As he searched, he couldn’t stop thinking about sneaking away. It had become an obsession to tide him over during the long, lonely hours by himself, doing nothing but search for rhinestones or watch mindless TV. It gave him a thrill when he thought of doing so uncertain and against the established rules. Even after Berta had told him not to, he still had the nagging urge to do the opposite, like it was a part of his nature to rebel simply because he’d been told _no._

It would have to be after noon, when Berta called during lunch to check that he’d eaten (she tended to fuss over him, but in a way it was comforting, so he let it be.) Then he would have at least four hours to explore before she called again during her break. The possibilities that gave him were … fewer than he’d like, but it was better than nothing at all. At the very least, he could visit the Týn Church. It was one of the few places he knew, if only because his first memory was of waking inside it.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember anything before that. There was a blank wall where memory should be, as if he simply hadn’t existed before that night, yet he knew that couldn’t be true. The dreams he had were far too vivid to not be memories, even if he couldn’t make sense of them. Yet how could he be certain? The things he dreamed were often too fantastical or horrifying to be real.

They were strange, frightening things. Flashes of searing light and brilliant sound, dancing together in an endless loop, until he woke, sweating and exhausted but unable to return to sleep.

He dreamed of a man etched in lightning, glorious and blazing as the sun, but if it was loving, and if it loved him. The man felt like home, and the dreams of him were the ones he coveted most of all. In those dreams he felt safe, because while the man’s rage could be as fearsome as a storm, he knew that it would never fall on him. How could one miss something they couldn’t remember? He was beginning to believe he was an expert in such things.

Another, a woman that was painfully beautiful, her eyes filled with love, and his heart ached at the mere sight of her. Holding him, kissing his face, singing him lullabies and whispering her love, like a secret meant only for him to hear. Sometimes he thought he saw her when he was awake, in the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, there would be nothing there. Some dreams she was wreathed in great, white wings, draped over him to keep the bad things away, and she spoke to him, but he could never remember the words when he woke, face wet and his chest tight with grief. He thought she might be his mother, but even if she wasn’t, he would’ve wanted her to be.

There were others in his dreams. A golden city, where everything was bright and gleaming, and sometimes he felt he belonged there (and sometimes he felt that he was a shadow among so much light.) A one-eyed king, sitting upon a throne – built on _lies_, something in him would hiss – and he wanted so badly to make him proud, the word _worthy_ hounding him like a disease. A man with dark skin and amber eyes, always watching, always seeing, and his skin prickled with the need to hide from such a gaze.

A team of heroes, fighting creatures that fell from the sky, saving the world.

But there were also the darker dreams, the nightmares that made him wake with a scream caught in his throat. The ones he wished he could forget, that he hoped so desperately were only nightmares, and nothing more.

Monsters with cobalt skin and eyes a startling red, in a dark land of ice and snow. His own hand, turning the same wretched color, horror and denial twisting like snakes inside his chest. The feeling of suffocating in his own skin, of realizing that he would never be able to escape the filth. Fear, desperation, anger, hate, _madness._ An entire world crying out in agony as it was being destroyed by a beam of terrible light. The one-eyed king again, only this time his every thought screamed _unworthy._

Falling in the space between worlds. Endless falling, until he’d forgotten how it felt not to fall. A void that screamed and sang, containing such horrors his mind shied from the sight of them. Darkness that was blinding, and the sensation of nothing and everything buffeting him all at once, tearing him apart. Death holding him, but not keeping him.

Caught, yet not saved. Waking and wanting nothing more than to die. The Bad Man: a monster of dark violet, with eyes that seared through him, and with him came _pain,_ pain unlike anything he’d ever felt. Nightmarish creatures that pulled him apart as the monster watched it all and did nothing as he screamed and begged. His mind twisted and warped, until he no longer recognized himself. Kneeling at the monster’s feet and telling him that he wouldn’t fail.

The team of heroes, yet he was the villain they fought. The man in lightning, but with his rage turned toward him, and his heart was a black, twisted thing of anger and hate, with no love, no light.

The things he had done in his dreams would’ve sentenced him to death in every part of the world.

Berta knew some, but not all of what he dreamed. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the rest. Would she throw him aside, if she knew? What if they really were memories, and not nightmares at all?

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

* * *

By the time Berta called, he’d found thirty-three rhinestones and eaten a meager lunch of turkey and grapes. The television spewed mindless drivel, set on a paid program for a hair loss cream, and it served as excellent background noise. He picked up the phone on the third ring, and waited for Berta to speak first.

_“How is my little magpie doing on this lovely day?”_ she greeted, her voice a soft, comforting rasp. _“Has he been sitting at his perch, lording over his pigeon court that like to roost with him?” _

He smiled a little; it helped that he fed them breadcrumbs. “I have found thirty-three of your rhinestones and before you ask, I have eaten lunch as well.”

_“Only thirty-three?”_ she teased, and he scowled.

“I haven't been looking very hard. I'm giving you a chance to beat me, because honestly, you're beginning to lose your touch in your ripe age.”

_“You hurt me, Andel. You know I’m sensitive about that.”_

“Which is why I constantly use it to my advantage.”

She laughed softly, and he could hear traffic in the background; she must’ve called outside. _“Such a mean boy. Are you feeling better?”_

Briefly, he felt irritation, but he tempered it, knowing she was only concerned for him. “Yes, I’m fine.”

A pause. _“Was it another dream?”_

He hesitated, clenching his jaw, and he hated how she could read him so easily. “Yes.”

_“What was it about?”_ she coaxed, voice gentle, and he was both grateful and resentful for it.

“Just another reminder of something I’ve lost.”

_“But maybe something that can be regained?”_

The green light, calling to him, whispering _I’m here, come find me._ The familiarity of it, like the beat of his own heart. “It disappeared when I reached for it, they always do. Perhaps it should remain lost.”

_“If it’s a part of you, I don’t think it should stay lost.”_

It was an old argument, and one he didn’t feel like revisiting, so he let it be. They continued to talk until her break ended, and she had to return to work. Feeling guilty for not telling her what he planned to do, he resolved to do something nice for her in the future, perhaps attempt to cook her something warm and simple, or tidy the apartment. Locking the door behind him, he began to descend to the ground floor, preferring the stairs to the rickety deathtrap they called an elevator. Honestly, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

The air had grown a little warmer, but it was still cold. Andel shoved his hands into his pockets as he stepped outside, the dark green hoodie that Berta had gifted him making him almost uncomfortably warm, but he didn’t take it off. It made him feel safe, like it was a suit of armor that protected him from the world and its prying eyes, lending him strength. With a final look back at his building, slightly ugly with its stripped, bare walls and line of scant balconies on the fourth floor, yet where he called home, he began walking down Křižíkova.

Downtown Karlín was alive with activity. Traffic moved steadily down the roads, barring the occasional car that stopped to park alongside to visit the small shops or cafés. Graffiti defaced a few of the older and more rundown buildings, but otherwise all of them were attractive and well kept, retaining their antique charm that so many travelers were drawn to. There were enough people on the walkway to make him nervous, but as he continued to walk and saw that no one took notice of him, he grew more at ease. It felt natural, blending with the crowd and copying mannerisms, until he seemed no different than any other stranger.

The outside air felt invigorating after being trapped inside for so long, and he found himself enjoying the feeling of sunlight on his face. It really was a beautiful city, with every building echoing with time and stories to tell, and he wondered if he listened hard enough, he might hear them.

It took the better part of the hour to reach Old Town after navigating through the maze of roads, but the worn roadmap that he’d found inside Berta’s closet, carefully folded and crammed into his back pocket, proved useful to him. As he grew closer, the roads changed to cobblestone, and there were fewer cars in the narrow streets, as travel was slower going and tedious with the number of pedestrians there were. Some were so narrow the buildings on each side seemed to loom over him, blocking the sun from view and making him feel almost trapped. He walked through those quickly.

The square was teeming with tourists after lunch hour, milling about and admiring the sights, taking photos, or eating outside of the surrounding restaurants. It was a sight that caused Andel to falter in his steps, because from what he could tell, he’d never liked large crowds. The times they’d come here had always been earlier in the morning to beat the crowds, and as he maneuvered through the throng of people, his lungs felt tight in his chest. He wondered how many of them were bad people, monsters hiding in plain sight. How would he know?

In one corner of the square was the St. Nicholas’ Church, with its stark white walls and turquoise-green steeples, and where Berta had taken him for a concert one night. To the south of it rose Old Town Hall, housing the Prague Orloj, an astronomical clock, and at the center of the square was the Jan Hus Memorial, depicting Hussite warriors and Protestants.

Standing proud above it all was its gothic jewel, the _Kostel Matky Boží p__ř__ed T__ý__nem, _or Church of Mother of God before Týn. Its twin towers were so tall they seemed to pierce the very sky, each topped by four spires and turrets, and something about those dark, sharp points still made him shiver, the scar at the center of his chest aching with phantom pain. It was half-hidden behind mansions with Baroque facades and the former Týn School, but that didn’t diminish its sheer magnificence and power.

He hadn’t been back there since he first woke, not wanting to return. No one had looked for him, had come to the church frantic over him being lost, and there were no missing children reports on the news, or flyers on the streets. Had he really been abandoned, and if he had, why? What did he do wrong?

_You know why._ He shook his head to clear away the thought, yet it lingered all the same.

The entrance to the Týn Church was difficult to find, if you didn’t know where to look. It was hard to remember when his mind had been in a haze of fear and exhaustion at the time, but he could remember enough to find the way. As he stepped inside, the cool, reverent hush of a holy place seemed to envelope him, and he sighed, feeling a deep sense of peace wash over him. It was hard to remember why he’d avoided coming there in the first place.

Making his way to where he was found, he scowled when he saw that a boisterous group of young adults had already gathered at the barrier that kept tourists away from the altar. They consisted of four men and one woman, and something about the group made him ache and annoyed at the same time, and that immediately made him wary of them. There was nothing familiar in their faces, yet if he stared at them long enough, a ghost would settle over each one like a veil, causing the blood to chill in his veins, but they did nothing but stare at him, eyes blank. Empty.

_Why do you follow me? _he wondered, and none of them gave him an answer. Briefly, he thought to return later, when they were gone, but decided he could ignore them. Keeping a wide berth between them, he drew closer, his hands resting lightly on the top of the rail as he studied the spot of his first memory. The altar cloth had been replaced, identical to the one that had been wrapped around his hips as Berta dragged him out, but otherwise it was the same, nothing to show what had happened that night.

Why here? It made no sense. His guardian believed that God placed him there, for protection, or for her to find and rescue, but he didn’t know if he believed such a thing. Maybe it had been nothing but a cruel jest: put the monster in a place it knows it doesn’t belong, and see how it reacts.

Berta had not been happy when he told her that.

Smiling a little at the memory, he flinched when one of the men in the group laughed, rather loudly, and he sent a venomous glare their way that went unseen. He glanced back at the empty altar, jaw clenched, and swallowed convulsively as a memory forced its way into the light.

_The starched cloth, rough against his bare skin, too white, too clean. Moonlight shining in his eyes through the windowpanes above him, while the rest of his world was dim and shadowed, and there was fear that something was hiding there, in the shadows, just waiting for him to close his eyes so it could strike._

The cool metal of the rail bit into his palms as he breathed in shakily, and he wanted to leave, to forget he’d ever come here, but his boots were rooted to the floor. _You can’t embrace your future if you don’t accept your past,_ Berta had told him once, and at the time he’d been disinclined to agree with her, but the dreams weren’t going away, and if there was a purpose to them, he wouldn’t find it with avoidance. Perhaps if he allowed himself to remember this memory, no matter how terrible it had been, it might open the door for more. He had to try.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and allowed the world to fade into the background as he remembered.

_It was so cold. The chill had made a home in him, and he didn’t think he would be warm ever again. _

_The statues, golden when he was not, and he didn’t know why that burned. _

_The inexplicable feeling that he was _missing_ something, those teasing flickers – sad blue eyes, that familiar red, stay with me, okay? (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry) – the taste of ash. _

_Longing for silence that was absolute: that couldn’t be broken, or ripped away. Where he could be _safe_. The terrible understanding that he had been torn from that peace, and he was cheated (a lie, it was always a lie.)_

_Looking down on himself and seeing blueblueblue, and he couldn’t escape it, couldn’t escape the horror and disgust writhing inside his chest, the loss aching in his blood, and it was too much, too soon. _

_The way the church echoed with his screams. _

_Always a maddening echo, but it was better than silence, better than the knowledge that he was _alone_ and he didn’t know why, he didn’t know what he had done. _

_There was guilt gnawing at his heart, and it was the kind that could not be absolved, because the weight of the crime was too heavy to be forgiven. _

_He didn’t understand._

_There were horns on his head and they felt monstrous, every part of him felt monstrous, and he was breaking from them, he was breaking from the air he couldn’t breathe _

_the screams he couldn’t stop _

_the emptiness _

_the complete and utter _nothing _that greeted him when he tried to remember himself _

_and if he didn’t have himself than _what did he have left.

_He didn’t know how he could endure this – _

_He didn’t _want to –

It wasn’t until the rail groaned in protest that he realized he was gripping it so tightly that it began to bend in his grasp, and he startled, ripping his hands away as if burned. He gaped at the imprint of his fingers in the metal in horrified shock, his heart pounding, and he stared at his shaking hands like he’d never seen them before. The skin was pale and undamaged, and for a moment he thought he may have imagined it, but then he felt a prickle and turned to see the lone woman of the group staring at him, her brow furrowed in bafflement.

Her eyes slid to the deformed rail, and she asked in a quiet, disbelieving voice, “did you just bend that?”

“No,” he lied, and then fled.

He didn’t run out of the cathedral, but it was a near thing. The peace he’d originally felt upon entering had been stripped away, replaced with growing alarm, and he regretted his decision in returning. The ceilings that had once towered above now seemed to bear down on him, the weight of it crushing him, and he forced himself to breathe, to remember that he _could_ breathe.

_I just bent solid metal, _he thought to himself, desperately trying to remain composed, and failing spectacularly. He didn’t know whether he should feel elated or horrified, and he couldn’t stop glancing down at his hands, as if there would be a visible change to them, but there was none. They were the same pale, spindly fingers that he was used to, and yet they apparently had inhuman strength. What did that make him? Something that wasn’t human?

He thought of blue skin, cold veins, and gritted his teeth together. _You fool, you already knew that, _the snake hissed.

But then what else could he be?

The faces were everywhere as he walked, as if remembering had called them forth, and he could feel his shoulders hunching defensively in response. They leered at him on every person he passed, mocking him, trying to drive him mad, and a part of him wanted to scream, to claw out his own eyes so he wouldn’t be able to see them anymore. His hands fisted inside his jeans, until he felt the bite of nails in his palms, and it helped ground him. He knew they weren’t real, mere shades, but they still put him on edge.

_You’re not real,_ he told each of them in his mind, but it didn’t chase them away. _You’re nothing but ghosts. _

A man’s face with magpie eyes and dark, neatly trimmed facial hair gave him a sardonic smile, as if to say, _are we really?_

The square was a blur as he stormed through it, head down and resolutely ignoring the faces that were now everywhere he looked. He deadened himself to the world so he wouldn’t see them, and perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps he should’ve allowed his head to clear before blindly choosing a street and following it, and perhaps he should’ve paid more attention when he began to cross a road and stepped into the path of an oncoming car.

Only he didn’t, and realized his mistake too late. He had a moment to register the dark mass streaking toward him before he braced, closing his eyes as his arms shielded his face, and at the same time felt something inside him _wrench._

A tremendous crash, a cacophony of warped metal and broken glass hitting him as loud and sudden as a thunderclap, and then nothing. No pain, no force from impact, not even the breath driven from his lungs, and for a moment he merely stood frozen, trembling all over, unable to process the lack of sensation. Slowly, he straightened from his protective crouch, opening his eyes to see what had happened, and then gaped at what he saw.

Before his eyes was a wall of shimmering green, like an emerald nebula, and inches away was the car, its front wrecked from colliding into it. Faintly, he could hear people shouting, the driver getting out, but all he could focus on was the green.

It was the same from his dream. The one that he’d longed for so desperately, familiar and beckoning, like a siren song calling his name. His blood seemed to vibrate and sing in his veins, and it was like a blind man regaining his sight, or a missing limb returned: something that was always meant to be, something inexplicably _right. _It enfolded him like the memory of wings, and when he reached out tentatively, his fingers brushed against warmth, energy almost like electricity, before it faded away, but it wasn’t gone, because it had come from _him._

The wondering smile that dawned on his face was so wide it hurt his mouth, and he could feel tears brimming in his eyes, because he finally had something _back._

His joy didn’t last, because he could hear the driver swearing up a foul storm as he staggered out of his car, and he felt the numerous eyes that had fallen on him, the attention making his skin crawl. Fear slithered in its place, and he made the decision to not linger long enough for the man to regain his bearings or for the growing crowd to realize that something unusual had occurred. He turned tail and bolted, ignoring the people calling after him.

The city was a blur to him as he ran, caught in a daze that left him relying on instinct to lead him, and when he finally stopped in an empty alley, he didn’t recognize where he was. Legs shaking and unsteady, he put his back to a wall and slowly slid to the ground, feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. He drew his knees to his chest and simply breathed, trying to calm his racing heart.

Once the world became less chaotic, he held out his hands and considered them. The warmth that he’d felt – the _power_ – could no longer be felt, but he knew it was there, hiding somewhere deep inside him, as if waiting for him to call on it again. At that moment, when it had stopped a moving car from harming him, he had felt the expanse of it, like a well as deep as an ocean, and he thought if he were to dip his hand into it, he wouldn’t be able to find the end.

It frightened him, more than he ever wanted to admit.

What he could do with that power. As soon as the thought came to him, he flinched, because what if that was what made him bad? There were so many ways he could hurt people like this, become a monster in truth instead of the mere fear of it. The possibilities that ran through his mind made him feel sick.

And yet … there were also the possibilities for good. For himself, and it didn’t have to be bad.

Before him was a choice, a precipice in which he could either fall or fly. He could ignore it, bury it deep and pretend it was never there, that he’d never tasted that wondrous power and felt – not complete, but less fragmented, more whole – and try to content himself with never knowing what he was, or what he could do.

Or he could embrace it.

The answer came to him, and he knew there could be no other choice, not for him. It wasn’t his nature.

He chose to fly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, I did it again, I posted it. 
> 
> Poor Loki, he really needs a hug. Where's Thor when you need him? I hope you'll forgive how excessive some parts may be. I am a total angst whore, and I tend to go overboard with descriptions, because I just love those delicious details. Also, you may be thinking that the whole screaming-in-the-church scene is a bit dramatic. You are right. But Loki _did_ just come back from death, and that wasn't exactly a soft or gentle event, or even natural. Being ripped away from that peace wasn't just traumatic, it was _wrong_, and Loki felt that deeply.
>
>> Why here? It made no sense.
> 
> _That was literally my thought process as I was writing this chapter._ Why the hell did I choose this location? Most of my struggle in writing this damn chapter was deciding on how many details to dish out about Prague. Disclaimer: I have never been to Prague, and the only knowledge I have of it is from research and Google Earth. If you live in Prague, I am so sorry if I have offended you in any way.
> 
> One more thing! I was going to include an interlude at the end of each chapter, to fill in the blanks for the three weeks that have passed, but I finally just grew impatient and decided they'll be short, separate chapters. They will be in Berta's point of view as she tries to draw Loki out of his shell.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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